


Not a Date

by MagdaTheMagpie



Series: Dreamer [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Love Triangle, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 23:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6398809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagdaTheMagpie/pseuds/MagdaTheMagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock lost the last round of the game against Moriarty and now has to forfeit John for one date. Sherlock is furious, John is resigned and Jim, of course, is ecstatic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Date

“I can’t believe it!” Sherlock exclaimed, his voice bouncing off the walls of the lab down in St Bart’s morgue. “I was so close! He tricked me! He left those false clues on purpose to mislead me! Me!”

Sherlock kicked one of the unsuspecting stool which spinned twice before wobbling back on all its feet. John let him vent for a bit, until even he and his legendary patience had had enough. John caught Sherlock when he whirled around for the tenth time, ready to abuse more of the furniture by the looks of him. Thankfully, Molly had fled early on and was now trying her best to keep the other employees from calling security judging by her wild gestures and frantic speech he glimpsed on the other side of the security windows.

“Sherlock,” John said urgently and pulled him into a fierce hug. “Sherlock, calm down. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“No. No, it’s not,” Sherlock answered, his voice raw with too much emotion. “You trusted me to keep you safe and I failed. I failed you. I lost the game and now you have to go on a… a  _ date,” _ Sherlock spat, his face twisting in an ugly grimace. “With  _ Moriarty _ .”

John sighed, let go of Sherlock now that he seemed to have calmed down somewhat, and rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous gesture Sherlock picked up on but didn’t comment.

“Yeah. I know.”

He hadn’t seen Jim for three whole months. True to his word, the criminal mastermind had kept challenging Sherlock with complicated murder-free puzzles in the hopes of winning a date with John, and Sherlock had brilliantly solved them all up until now. But given they played two to three games a months, it was honestly quite impressive Sherlock had managed to keep him at bay so long.

And now, just the thought of having to go to Jim… willingly… It made John’s insides twist with dread. But he had to so the truce between the two geniuses continued. It was a far better alternative than the open war they had going before with him stuck in the middle of it, as well as the whole of London standing hostage in case John made a bid for his own freedom. So no, John did not relish seeing his former captor and tormentor again. It had taken him a lot of time and effort with Sherlock’s help to sort out his conflicted emotions towards Jim and the warped image he had of the rest of the world, and he was still not out of the woods yet. John especially resented Mycroft and was paranoid about everyone’s true motivations, even if they were just asking for him to pass a pen or something equally innocent. Only his vision of Sherlock had remained untarnished by his long captivity under Jim Moriarty’s personal supervision. Sherlock was his anchor, his only fixed point tethering him to both reality and his sanity, so… he might have been a bit clingy lately, not that Sherlock seemed to mind.

 

The pink phone chimed.

 

**Oh dear, Sherly. It looks like you lost this time. But don’t worry, I’ll take good care of John. Tomorrow at noon, reservations at Verner’s. xo -JM**

 

Sherlock threw the phone at the wall where it shattered in several pieces. He’d have to ask Jim to send over a new one, preferably not pink this time around since it always drew Sherlock unwanted attention, mostly sniggers and more mockery from the same inane people who called him a freak on a regular basis.

 

“You won’t go,” Sherlock said, his voice flat and cold now. “I can’t let you.”

“Sherlock,” John sighed. “You know I have to. Jim has kept his end of the bargain. I haven’t seen tail nor hide of him since you struck the agreement. If I don’t go, he’ll just kidnap me again and make me disappear for God knows how long and I don’t want to go through all that again. I don’t know if I’ll… I can’t… ”

Sherlock looked about to convince him it was worth declaring a war on Moriarty just to keep him out of this impending meeting, but he froze for a few seconds, as if on pause, before his whole face lit up.

“What?” John asked, worried. “What are you up to now, Sherlock?”

“Me?” he asked with mock surprise that wasn’t the least bit convincing. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

 

As much as he tried to, John couldn’t get Sherlock to spill the beans. John knew he was up to something, but he couldn’t figure out what, no matter how much he nagged or spied on him. Sherlock hadn’t tried to talk John out of keeping his end of the bargain again, he hadn’t tried to lock him inside their flat or paid cabbies so they’d refuse to take him to the meeting point either. In fact, everything had gone smoothly and John was now standing in front of Verner’s, a rather upscale restaurant by the looks of it, not that John had expected anything less from Jim. He glanced around, still suspicious of Sherlock’s apparent acceptance when he still expected him to stop this  “date” with Jim at the last minute, but no… nothing. John gulped, nervous now that he knew he had to go through with it, and he pushed the door open.

The receptionist seemed to not only have been expecting him, but recognize him somehow, and politely asked him to follow him before he could even get a word in edgewise. John did, his heart pounding faster with every step and all too soon, he found himself face to face once more with Jim Moriarty. Jim leapt out of his chair, dismissed the other man impatiently and pulled back John’s chair to allow him to sit. John scowled at the chair, not used to such gallantry being directed his way, but he did as was expected and sat, barely managing not to flinch when Jim kissed his cheek. It was more restraint than he’d anticipated from him however, so John decided he’d at least make a token effort at conversation.

“Been waiting long?” John asked once Jim had reclaimed his own seat across from him. John knew he was precisely on time, a habit from his military career.

“Only three months, Johnny boy,” Jim crooned, misunderstanding on purpose. “Worth the wait though. You look positively delectable.”

John sighed, feeling this so-called date was going to be just as tedious as he’d feared.

“Good thing I'm not on the menu then,” John muttered, looking for said menu before Jim thought of scribbling him in there between the salads and the steaks.

“How have you been dreaming?” Jim asked with a mischievous grin.

John eyed him suspiciously. Since he’d been released, John had only been visited by the strange swirl of colours that came in between his prophetic Dreams, so not once in three months had he been forced to watch Sherlock die. Sherlock had even been disappointed by the lack of Dreams because it meant he had to put his experiments on hold.

“I haven’t, actually.”

“Really? How very extraordinary.”

John stared at Jim, but he couldn’t decipher this genius any more than he could Sherlock when they wore that look, the one that said ‘we both know what’s going on here’ when in reality, John was still completely out of the loop, most likely miles behind. John pretended to read the menu instead, cursing at all the fancy names and foreign words.

“You choose for me,” John said, tossing the menu on the table with disgust.

Jim’s smile widened and a waitress appeared as soon as Jim snapped his fingers, forcing John to wonder if it was the power of his generous tips or of his death threats which got him such impeccable service this time around. John glanced leisurely at the other patrons while Jim placed the order and he soon spotted a familiar figure sitting alone at a small table not too far from them: Sebastian Moran, Jim’s second shadow. Of course he’d be there. Seb met his gaze and smirked, so John rolled his eyes. They had a love hate relationship, in the sense that they loved to get on each other's nerves, but he was as loyal to Jim as John was to Sherlock and he respected that. John focused his attention back on Jim, who still looked amused, waiting for John to connect the dots. Alright, he could do this: Why had that been Jim's first question after so long without seeing him? How could Jim know he hadn’t dreamt? How could he possibly have any impact on them? That’s not how they worked. John Dreamed when Sherlock was in mortal danger, so, unless…

“Oh,” John gasped, eyes locked on Jim’s. “Have you been protecting Sherlock?”

“I may have let word out that he was not to be harmed, nor his lovely friend.”

“Boyfriend,” John corrected.

“Details,” Jim replied dismissively.

“Wine,” a voice with a horrid French accent cut in.

John saw Jim frown up at the interloper and he honestly feared for the waiter’s life, but then Jim’s eyes widened in genuine shock. John understood why the moment he looked up to take a better look at their sommelier. It was Sherlock, dressed in a tux with a ridiculous fake moustache and fake glasses but so obviously him, he didn’t understand how he had not noticed him before.

“What are  _ you  _ doing here?” Jim snarled. 

“Why? Whatever do you mean, sir? I work here, of course, yes?” Sherlock said, his atrocious accent becoming even thicker, while he dramatically showed off the wine bottle as if to prove his point.

John knew this was a very bad idea. Sherlock was only going to make Jim mad and that never ended well, but he couldn’t help laughing at the absurdity of Sherlock’s get up and the whole situation. It explained why Sherlock had not tried to prevent him from coming: Sherlock simply intended to be there too.

“I won this date fair and square, Sherlock. You can’t be here,” Jim hissed.

“Says who? You should have made the rules clearer. It was never stipulated I couldn’t be working as a waiter in the restaurant you invited John to.”

Jim narrowed his eyes. He was seething and might lash out any second now.

“I’ll have my lawyers draft up an iron-clad agreement, you can count on it. But in the meantime, I’ll owe you for this, Sherlock. I’ll owe you.”

"Now, now, none of that boys," John interjected, trying to diffuse the situation as he patted Jim's hand apologetically, which seemed to please him to no end. He was like an affection starved cat purring at being petted. "Sherlock," John sighed tiredly.

"No," he replied sharply.

"You know you're cheating, Sherlock," John tried to reason.

"He started it," Sherlock said with an accusing jab of his finger in Jim’s direction, a gesture which was disturbingly reminiscent of kindergarten.

"No, I was just smarter than you," Jim corrected. "It's not my fault you can't discern real clues from planted ones. Don't they teach you anything at whatever third grade detective academy you attended?"

Sherlock’s grip on the wine bottle tightened, holding it more like a mace now than the expensive drink it probably was if the faded date displayed on it was any indication. To make matters worse, Moran was joining the party, looming threateningly over their table. Things could only go downhill from here if he didn’t stop it. Why did  _ he _ always have to be the reasonable one?

“That’s enough! The both of you!” John barked at the two of them, pushing away from the table to stand as a buffer between Sherlock and Jim. “You’re acting like children fighting over a goddamn toy! I won’t tolerate it!”

He looked up at Sherlock and cupped his face affectionately. He really couldn’t help letting his scowl melt a little at the beaten puppy dog eyes he was making and he wasn’t even faking them for once.

“Sherlock,” he whispered. “I don’t want this to turn into a war, because it will if you keep this up and I won’t stand for it. Jim has behaved for three whole months, three months of freedom, just you and me, without having to live in fear. And yes, he was smarter than you, just this once, but we both know that little trick won’t work again. So now, I’m asking you to trust me, Sherlock. Just this once, let me deal with the problem and I’ll come back to you, because he’ll have to let me go. Can you do that for me? Can you trust me, love?”

Sherlock wanted to say no, it was painfully evident by the look in his eyes and the way he bit his bottom lip. But John was asking for his trust and that was the one thing that had never been tarnished by their misadventures, the one thing that had kept their love strong even when they were apart, the one thing that had kept John from losing his sanity completely. So, Sherlock did the only thing he could do and nodded. John kissed him. A sweet, short kiss that spoke of love and promises. Sherlock bestowed him one of his rare shy smiles, then took a step back and looked anywhere but at him or Jim, as if he’d lost any interest in the proceedings. John’s lips twitched. He knew his twat of a boyfriend was doing that on purpose to annoy his nemesis.

“Jim?” John said, turning towards his not-date, who seemed torn between curiosity and evil plotting.

“Uhm? Is your flatmate quite finished ruining our date?” Jim asked, playing with a steak knife, pointing it not so subtly in Sherlock’s direction.

“Boyfriend. Not a date,” John corrected automatically. “Come on, I’ll make it up to you,” he said and pushed his chair back, Jim following his lead in a bit of a daze as they walked towards the exit. 

They were at the door when John turned around to stare at the giant man looming right behind them, just two steps away and breathing down their necks. 

“Stay,” John ordered, and Seb looked about ready to murder him with the toothpick he was chewing on, but Jim gave a nod of his head and Moran hesitated, looked about to protest, thought better of it and returned to his table.

Satisfied, John led Jim outside. Luckily, the day was rather nice so after a moment’s deliberation, he steered his not-date down to St Katharin’s Docks where he knew an excellent place that served the best Fish and Chips in London. Certainly better than whatever foreign gibberish they were serving at Verner’s. Of course, it wasn’t Jim’s kind of scene, but he went along, although reluctantly. It was like dragging Sherlock to the cinema.

“Is this place even sanitary?” Jim muttered. “It looks like something you’d find in a third world country. Look! The man at the counter has dandruff and he’s not wearing the reglementary hairnet. I don’t want dandruff sprinkled fish and chips. And I’m not even going to mention his hands. I think I might be sick, John. Please don’t make me eat here. Let’s at least go to a place that has napkins? Please?”

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic,” John said, effectively shutting him up before he insulted anyone else that would be handling their food. For someone so smart, that had been an incredibly stupid move.

After paying Dandruff-man, John handed Jim his share of the meal, fighting off a laugh when he would only touch the admittedly greasy wrapping with the tips of his fingers. He looked so out of place, standing there miserably in his thousand pounds suit and five quids meal that John couldn’t resist undoing his tie and stuffing it in his pocket before ordering him to loosen up.

“I know you never take a day off, so you might as well make the most of it today. Just… relax. Okay?” John said to get Jim looking less miserable. His argument seemed to hit the mark, although not the one he'd been aiming for.

“Like playing a role?”

“No,” John sighed. “Like being yourself. Not super villain Moriarty, just you: Jim. I know you can, I’ve met him a few times and I actually liked him.”

“You did?” Jim purred

“Well, I liked him a sight better than your cackling alter-ego.”

Jim pouted and sat on the bench next to him, right on the wooden docks facing the marina. He sniffed one of the chips suspiciously before tossing it in his mouth, declaring it edible. He probably wasn’t being funny on purpose but he still wrenched a chuckle out of John and conversation was easier after that. They talked and ate and threw morsels of their food to the wildlife that was gathering around them: seagulls, pigeons, fish and even a stray cat.

“Is this where you usually take your dates? It’s a wonder you ever got laid.”

“It's my charming personality that gets me laid, not the amount of money I throw at my dates.”

“You don't say,” Jim said, leaning into him. “I don't think that's a winning strategy for me. If we had stayed at Verner’s, however, you would already be half drunk on wine, champagne, and fine food. You'd be putty in my hands by now.”

“Was that your cunning plan to seduce me? That's a bit… creepy.”

“Well, to be honest, dating is not really my area.”

John stared at Jim at this unexpected confession. He was so much like Sherlock… unless he was lying, manipulating him into thinking along those lines so he'd assimilate him to his boyfriend, or maybe so he'd feel pity for him?

“Really?” John said skeptically, his eyes narrowed at Jim as he thought of how Jim had manipulated him in the past. “You seemed confident enough before for someone who allegedly has little to no experience.”

Jim hummed with a blissful look on his face. He crumpled the greasy paper with the dregs of his meal into a ball and tossed it into the bin not far from them, birds scattering away in a flurry of wings and squawks of protest at the sudden movement. John followed suit, relieved he hadn't missed the bin.

“You mean when I kissed you?” Jim asked, inching closer with every word and holding his gaze while John did his best not to blush. “When I embraced you, or held you all night? Played with your hair while you were sleeping? What I wouldn't give to have all that again, to have you all to myself, whenever I want. I'd burn the world for you, John.”

And John would have sworn there was fire in his eyes, it was hypnotising and he thought he might burst into flames if he didn't break eye-contact soon.

“I would do  _ anything,” _ Jim finished in a breathy sigh. “Anything.”

John gulped and managed to turn his face away from the intense dark eyes, laughing nervously.

“I'm not going to pimp myself out, Jim. You know me better than that. Too ‘honorable’, remember?”

Jim had meant it as an insult when he'd had him locked in his gilded cage, so John felt a smug sense of satisfaction at using the argument against him. John suddenly stood, saying he felt like a walk and Jim agreed easily. Too easily. John thought taking a stroll around the marina would put some distance between them but Jim grabbed onto his arm and stuck there like a leech when John tried to shake him off. He gave up, eventually, rationalising that it wasn't the worst Jim could have done.

“I'm sure I could think of something I could bargain for a kiss,” he sing songed.

John snorted.

“There is nothing I could possibly want from you.”

And it was true. John didn't need anything, he was happy, content. He had Sherlock.

“There's always something,” Jim crooned.

John stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face the other man. He knew then, without the shadow of a doubt, that Jim had planned this whole conversation, brought John exactly where he wanted him.

“You haven't done anything to Sherlock, have you? You promised-”

“And I keep my promises,” Jim said, tutting reprovingly.

“What could you possibly have to offer, then?”

“A reprieve from the game. I hear Sherlock has reacted rather badly to his failure. Maybe you two should take some time off somewhere, away from everything, maybe even away from London for a bit?”

John scowled upon hearing the offer. It was… tempting, true. They'd more or less been held hostage by the pink phone. If there wasn’t that sword of Damocles always hanging over their heads, Sherlock could think of taking on some of the cases he had been offered abroad. He'd hated that Sherlock had to turn them down because of him. One of those cases was for  _ a princess, _ a real one, it would be great publicity for Sherlock, not to mention the ego boost.

“What would be the terms of that offer?” John asked, not quite believing he was actually considering it. Sherlock would kill him if he knew.

“One kiss from you and you won't hear from me for a whole month.”

John grimaced. A kiss wouldn't be that bad. Jim had already kissed him more times than he could remember so what was once more, just once, for some peace from the game he and Sherlock had going.

“And by kiss,” Jim added with his patented predatory grin, “I mean a real kiss. I want  _ you  _ to kiss me, John. And I want you to kiss me back, not just endure it.”

Well, that certainly wasn't the same, that was… intimate. Although… Sherlock had kissed a woman two weeks ago… 

“For a case!” he'd argued, saying it didn't mean anything if you didn't give any meaning to it. The kiss had just been a tool, a means to an end. 

This felt like a similar situation, but whether Sherlock would be as understanding as he'd been was another matter. And John had been pretty furious when he'd seen Sherlock and that woman…John shuddered at the memory.

“Three months,” he bartered. 

He might as well get the most out of it. Jim's eye sparkled in triumph.

“Two,” he countered. “You can't expect me to not see you any longer than that. It might kill me.”

John rolled his eyes.

“Drama queen.”

“And how you love them, Johnny boy. Do we have a deal?”

John hesitated, weighing Sherlock's freedom against his reaction at such an agreement, but the former won out in the end. Sherlock wouldn't be bound by the game, and he didn't have to know about it… right?

“Deal,” John replied and shook Jim's hand.

“We should find some place private,” Jim said, flicking his eyes up towards a CCTV aimed their way.

John glared at it, imagining Mycroft had to be watching this very moment if he wasn't too busy plotting some war or assassination somewhere. In any case, he'd get the images sooner or later.

“I know just the place,” John said.

And that's how he and Jim found themselves at the planetarium. It was perfect. Public, but generally empty at this hour, especially with the sun shining so invitingly outside, dark, no cameras. He'd brought dates here before, but he knew he'd never bring Sherlock because he had no interest whatsoever in the solar system. It was as neutral a ground as he was going to find.

Jim gazed up at the spectacle when they stepped under the starry dome, looking uncannily relaxed as he did so. John would have imagined he held no interest in such a spectacle, same as Sherlock and he was somewhat glad they weren't as alike as they sometimes seemed.

“Quite the romantic, aren't you?” Jim mused, turning towards him. “It's unexpected, I'll give you that.”

John chuckled nervously, torn between wanting to get the kiss over with, and delaying it for as long as possible. But he knew his time was already running out, Sherlock had been texting more and more regularly on both their phones demanding his release. It was now or never. So now, preferably, before he chickened out.

John glanced around but only spotted two other couple snogging in the seats further up the room. So he took a deep breath, thought of all the good reasons for which he was doing this and took a step closer to Jim who was staring at him with naked interest and anticipation, the tip of his tongue darting out for an instant, unconsciously licking his bottom lip which was slightly parched. Another step and John was in his personal space, sharing heat, taking in a lungful of his expensive cologne, momentarily lost as to what to do with his hands because Jim was of such a different build than…  Nope! John shook his head. He couldn't afford to think of Sherlock now. This was nothing alike. This was just a means to an end.

They were of a height, so John snaked one arm around Jim's waist, pulling him flush against him while the other cradled his jaw and the back of his head, angling it just right so that there was no awkward bumping when their lips met. And all the while Jim had watched him with dark, hungry eyes. But not now. Jim moaned as he closed his eyes, but he wasn't making this easy on John. When he said he wanted  _ John _ to kiss  _ him,  _ he meant that quite literally, so John found himself having to coax Jim into parting his lips, nipping at his bottom one which was soft, full and just a bit salty from their meal.

Jim finally relented and seemed to shiver when his lips broke apart, his body pressing into John’s as if he wanted to claw his way into his skin, one of his hands having somehow found its way under his shirt, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake, while the other was pulling at the fine hairs at the nape of his neck sending ripples of pleasure down his spine that he simply refused to acknowledge.

The kiss was a tool, nothing more. This was just a transaction.

John’s eyes had closed at some point, and even if he managed not to moan when their tongues slid against each other's, he was nevertheless very conscious of how flushed and hot he was, of how his heart rate was skyrocketing, of how he was maybe holding Jim a bit closer than strictly necessary… It was so wrong. He shouldn’t be enjoying this and his only hope was that Jim was too busy enjoying the kiss on his end to notice something was amiss with him.

His breath coming short, John finally pulled away, eliciting a whimper of protest from Jim which made him smile because he'd finally been the one to hold some power over him, when it had always,  _ always, _ been the other way around before. It was short lived, but it was strangely healing, despite the way he'd obtained it.

Jim was eerily quiet too. John had expected him to crow at having obtained what he wanted, but he was nuzzling his neck, leaning against him as if he was too overwhelmed to stand on his own and… there was definitely something a bit not good and a bit too hard pressing against him. Jim had enjoyed the kiss a lot more than John did, a bit  _ too _ much, so John decided to give him a few minutes to get himself back under control, or he would have if things hadn't decided to go pear shaped from there.

 

Something hit John in the back so he glanced around to investigate the disturbance, only to be met by a group of young men, five… no, six of them: all in their twenties and all wearing varying degrees of disgust on their faces.

“Get the hell outta here, you faggots,” the one standing at the front of the group, the bulkier one, said, causing his cronies to laugh and cheer.

John turned around completely, keeping Jim at his back, because he'd seen him fight hand to hand before, and he was terrible at it.

“What did you say?” John snarled.

“You heard me. We don't want no poofters here. This place ain't gonna turn into a meetup for you pervs.”

“And I suppose you and your pathetic little crew come here to educate your teeny tiny brains, do you?” Jim sneered.

“What did you say?” The Bulk demanded, puffing himself up to look more impressive, which might have worked on anyone else, but John was completely unimpressed and judging by Jim's snort, so was he.

“I think he called you a moron,” John replied, speaking exaggeratedly slowly, then glanced at Jim who was grinning malevolently. “Did you call him a moron?”

“I think that would be far too generous. I'm not sure their collective IQ can even amount to one full moron. In fact, I think we may have discovered a new species of lowlife: behold the Imbecilicus Giganticus, hopefully the last of their kind.”

John giggled at Jim's pedantic tone and barely avoided The Bulk's fist headed for his face, retaliating immediately with a kick to his chest, before all hell broke loose.

Thankfully, Jim could hold his own when he wasn't handcuffed to someone or facing a ninja, but they were still outnumbered and outmuscled, not to mention one of their attackers had decided to bring a knife into the fight, so John was glad when the Met showed up, broke up the fight and separated everyone before taking them to the station.

Their assailants were being processed first since they were already known to the Met, and were rather louder and rowdier than John and Jim who followed meekly behind as if they were simply visitors and weren’t wearing handcuffs. John would have thought Jim would be a little more nervous given he was a wanted criminal but the name he’d given the police officer clearly showed he already had a way out.

“Who’s Richard Brook?” John asked when they’d been left alone, handcuffed to the bench until someone could come deal with them.

“One of me.”

“Schizophrenic much?”

“It comes in useful,” Jim said and took advantage of their close quarters on the bench to make himself comfortable against him.

“Well, could you inform Richard that we’re not actually dating,” John muttered, trying to untangle Jim’s fingers from his own.

“Oh, but you liked it. The kiss,” Jim whispered in his ear before nipping his lobe. “I know you did, not as much as I did though, but there’s still hope.”

“No, there definitely isn’t. It was just… a business transaction. And when we get out of here, our separate ways, I won’t be seeing or hearing from you for two months. That was the deal.”

Jim snickered.

“What is it now?” John demanded with an exasperated sigh. “You’re not going to weasel out of it, are you?”

John thought over the terms of the deal, but it had been simple enough. There was no way he’d missed a loophole or anything.

“No, no. Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Johnny boy. You'll be missing me sorely for two whole months, as promised. It’s just that I actually had to take a leave anyway. The kiss was just a bonus.”

John thought he might have punched the smug little bastard right then, but his anger fizzled out upon hearing Sherlock call his name. He’d done away with his French waiter costume and Greg was trailing behind him, keys in hand.

“Saved by the cavalry,” Jim quipped, hanging even tighter onto John. “Hello again, Sherly. Bit early, aren't you?”

“No,” Sherlock growled and snatched the keys from Greg's hand. “You've had John all afternoon, that's more than enough.”

Sherlock uncuffed John and pulled him out of Jim's grasp, his hands and eyes seeming to do a quick inventory of his body to ascertain Jim had not stolen a piece of him.

“Let’s go,” he said, tossing Greg his keys back.

“What about…?” Greg asked with a wave towards Jim but stopped mid-sentence. “Wait, isn’t that…?”

“You don’t want to know, Greg,” John told him, then glanced at Jim. “Just leave him there, he’s not our problem anymore.”

“Oh, Johnny boy,” Jim simpered. “How you wound me. And our date had been going sooooo well.”

“Not a date,” John snapped.

Jim’s index finger played with his bottom lip and he winked at Sherlock. The bastard. Sherlock went rigid and pushed their little group out of the station without another word, hailing a cab as soon as they hit the kerb. Greg took his leave, feeling the tension between them, but not before wrestling a promise out of John to call him so he could explain what the bloody hell was going on.

The ride back home was silent, the walk back up to their flat was silent and silent it remained when they were both alone. Sherlock shucked his coat off and paced, anger radiating off him in waves. John knew not to push, knew that Sherlock needed time to wrestle the data flooding his mind in some semblance of order before he confronted him, knew that whatever Sherlock threw at him would be wholly deserved. 

“What did he do to you?” Sherlock finally asked.

“Nothing,” John replied because it was true, technically speaking.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him and John sighed.

“He tricked me into doing something. I thought I was getting the better end of the bargain, but it turns out I would have won the prize whether I paid up or not…”

John let himself fall into his armchair and hid his face in his hands, too ashamed to look at Sherlock. He’d been such a gullible idiot. Jim had won everything in that deal: he’d gotten to manipulate him, again, got him to kiss Jim and even enjoy it despite himself, and last but not least, he’d thrown a wedge between him and Sherlock.

“You kissed him,” Sherlock growled and received a nod in answer. “I’m going to skin that little snake! I shouldn’t have left you alone with him.”

“Sherlock-”

The last thing John wanted was Sherlock blaming himself. John had told him he could handle the day with Jim and he’d failed. Miserably. He was the only one at fault here. He could have just told Jim to bugger off with his offer…

“What did he promise you?”

“Time. Two months. No pink phone, no games, no Jim. Just you and me. I thought… I thought maybe we could take one of your cases abroad and leave all this mess behind us for a while. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I thought I could… like you did for that case… but…”

“Oh, John,” Sherlock sighed and crouched in front of his armchair. “You idiot.”

“I’m so sorry,” he repeated, locking eyes with him and trying to pour all his regret and his love into those simple words.

Sherlock stared at him, reading something from his face, his expression, the little details only he picked up on and transformed into extraordinary deductions. But then, he simply stood, grabbed his coat, and left, leaving John to sink into the cushions of his armchair and his guilt. He’d been gone for an hour when John started to worry. He’d already checked his phone several times and had started typing a few messages that he deleted one after another. Sherlock needed space. He could give him that at least.

John could just picture him, stalking across London, hands deep in his pockets and head down as he thought about… John paled. Maybe Sherlock would rethink their relationship. Would he be dumping him when he came back? Telling him he was untrustworthy? Too much of an idiot? Whichever way Sherlock decided to break up with him, John knew he wouldn’t be gentle about it. It was another hour before Sherlock reappeared and John had worked himself into such a state of trepidation during that time that he jumped out of his chair when the door swung open and stared with wide fearful eyes when Sherlock stalked right up to him.

But there was no scowl or snarl or any of the other signs of anger on Sherlock’s beautiful face John’s imagination had painted so vividly. He only looked a bit flushed and a lot excited, the way he did when he’d solved a particularly difficult case. Most unsettling was the way he stared at John without a word. It had happened before, often, but not usually for such a long stretch of time.

“Sherlock?” He asked tentatively. “Are you… alright?”

It was a stupid question, but he was at a loss as to how to formulate that better. He half-expected a chastisement from Sherlock too at this point, but he only nodded enthusiastically, his curls bobbing up and down with his head.

“I found a solution,” he declared, ignoring his question altogether.

“A solution?”

“To Moriarty!” he exclaimed as if it was obvious. “He obviously thinks he can still win you over and I bet his attacks against you will only become more frequent and difficult to resist.”

John tried to protest but Sherlock stopped him short.

“It’s not your fault, John. I don’t expect you to navigate Moriarty’s devious mind without falling into his traps now and then. Even I can’t do that. Hell, even Mycroft can’t. I’m not blaming you, I’m trying to protect you. So,” Sherlock paused and dropped down on one knee. “John, will you marry me.”

John stared down at Sherlock, his jaw working up and down but no sound coming out. Never in a thousand years could he have imagined such a scene: Sherlock and his sense of drama, looking so otherworldly, almost glowing with glee, one knee on their dusty worn-down carpet in their cluttered and messy flat, asking for his hand in marriage. John knew he would have said yes right there and then, and been the happiest man alive… if it wasn’t just a plan to foil Moriarty.

“Sherlock,” he sighed, then regretted his tone immediately when he saw Sherlock’s face fall and shutter. He pulled him up to his feet but then almost had to restrain him to keep him from fleeing.

“Sherlock, listen to me,” he pleaded. “I’d love to, really. Nothing would make me happier.”

Sherlock stilled and looked at him through narrowed eyes.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“People don’t just marry each other to give the finger to a… erm… fan?”

Sherlock snorted.

“Moriarty is not a  _ fan _ , John. He’s completely obsessed with you and he’ll never let up unless I make it clear you belong to me, forever, and that he has no chance in hell to ever put his grubby little hands on you ever again.”

“Belong to you?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I wouldn’t mind hearing it.”

Sherlock sighed, too loudly for it to be genuine, and his expression softened.

“I was thrown into your path, John, just as much as you were thrown into mine, repeatedly. I’d lie if I said I didn’t believe in destiny, now, not with what we know, the futures we’ve seen and changed. So… I suppose it would be more correct to say we belong to each other, with each other and that if you love me only half as much as I love you, then it’s only logical we get married, unavoidable really, and not only because of Moriarty.”

“That’s just a bonus?” John teased with a wide grin.

“Exactly. A big fat bonus. I hope he cries his eyes out and chokes on his snot.”

“You’re awful.”

“And you love me anyway.”

“Yes.” John said huskily.

“Did I hear a yes?”

“Yes, you idiot. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Two months later, Mrs Hudson brought up their mail because their mailbox had been making ‘funny noises’. Sherlock quickly found the enveloppe responsible and opened it before spilling the contents on the kitchen table. To be honest, neither of them was surprised to find a bright pink phone, its blinking light indicating they had one unread message.

 

**Did you really think it would be that easy? Think again. -JM**

  
  



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